


tempt you

by Anecdoche (so_psychso)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, Enthusiastic Consent, Face-Sitting, Knifeplay, M/M, Oral Sex, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Shotgunning, Slaughter!Jonny d'Ville, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23813536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_psychso/pseuds/Anecdoche
Summary: Gerry encounters someone he believes to be an affiliate of the notorious Grifter's Bone. He couldn't have been more wrong.
Relationships: Jonny d'Ville/Gerard Kaey
Comments: 30
Kudos: 233





	tempt you

**Author's Note:**

> Listen idek, Jonny d'Ville hot, Gerry Kaey also hot. Goth 4 goth especially hot. Just don't think too hard about it. Btw, I'm trans and this uses masc terms for Gerry bc rights. (Also this is decidedly Not beta read lmao. I'm sick of looking at it, pls just take it so I can finally get back to my crochet)
> 
> Also, if you want to request something, please feel free to shoot a message over to my [tumblr](https://master-fiber.tumblr.com/)!

It’s become something of a ritual, this, when stress at the Archives surmounts and even a cheeky natter with Getrude can’t help blow off enough steam. Plus, there’s something properly cathartic about his brand of bar hopping, always seeking out the grungiest dives and cringing through awful sets from bands who are lucky to have even made _this_ venue. It’s a great way to kill an evening and forget the awful things he’s witnessed that day, even if he has somewhat ulterior motives. 

Because Grifter’s Bone is hardly spared from his radar, especially given it’s glaringly obvious associations. He’s never confronted the Slaughter’s ilk face to face, but Grifter’s Bone was far too tantalizing a piece of gossip to let alone. He’d first heard about them at a shitty hole in the wall he doesn’t recall the name of. The set that night hadn’t been too terrible, and the more Gerry drank, the more he found himself fancying the bassist. A few cheap shots into their subsequent conversation revealed this piece of musical lore, and, well, Gerry might have pressed it further, but the bassist made his move, and suddenly a half hour of snogging and groping had elapsed, and Gerry found himself in possession of more pressing priorities. He didn’t forget the slurred whispers and shadowy glances, though, and since then, when he takes to the streets of midnight, dressed to match, he’s always keeping an eye and ear out for one besuited Alfred Grifter. 

Disappointingly, though, since the start of his indulging this past time, there’s been no sign of the elusive troupe. It doesn’t exactly ruin the evenings for him, in fact it’s assimilated into part of the appeal. That little shot of adrenaline alongside the vodka, the measured leap of his pulse when he spies a slouched figure in brown, or one too many people lingering around the stage. 

But… no. Almost a year since he heard of this curiously volatile band, and he’s starting to think that bassist really was just talking out of his arse, probably trying to impress his way into Gerry’s pants. Which was unnecessary, but that’s beside the point.

And, regardless, it’s hardly enough of a deterrent, truth or otherwise, to keep Gerry away from an evening out, and after the day he’s had, he’s on the prowl. Booze, bad music, and a good fuck. He’s of a particular endeavor to make some cute boy beg, so he charts a course for _The Pierced Rose_ , the more esteemed of his haunts—which essentially means there’s more than one stall in the loo, and most of the graffiti is free of slurs. 

It also has the benefit of being none too far from his flat, so after popping in for a shower and a change of clothes—among other embellishments—he heads out, enjoying the brisk November air. He arrives at the _Rose_ just after eleven, and spares a glance at the posters on the neon spattered windows advertising the night’s set. It’s some grunge-pop number he hasn’t had the displeasure of seeing before; _The Latter Day Saints_ , they’re called, which should be interesting. Repressed religious-types, always a good time, them. 

He grins at Madeline, the on and off bouncer, as he makes his way in, not even bothering to flash his ID, and she fondly calls him an arsehole which is always a good sign. They’ve a decent history, the two of them. She made her pass at him the first time he slunk through the _Rose’s_ threshold—newly 18 but T had already done wonders to his jawline—and she roundly apologized for the mistake upon learning his age. That same night, all 4 foot 11 of her punched out a wannabe skinhead who’d tried to spike his drink, and they’ve been mates ever since. Insofar as he frequents the _Rose_ , anyway. He doesn’t really _do_ friends, as it were.

Either way, the evening promises her feisty vigilance and a grunge band of ex-Mormons. What better way to unwind?

Well, he can think of one, and he makes a cursory survey of the patrons as he wends his way to the bar. He orders a whiskey neat, tosses it back, and grimaces through the burn, eyes watering as he makes a second pass at the crowd. Eh, no one his type yet, but it’s still early, and the _Saints_ haven’t even set up.

He lounges for a bit, then, kicking his feet up as he claims one of the few available stools, doing his best not to think of all the crap he’d dealt with today. That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? Even if he can turn a blind eye to the piles of meat Gertrude practically slopped at his feet—her own tirade notwithstanding—it still always comes down to _that_ . The _fucking_ Eye. Interminably lurking, probing out its creepy little feelers no matter where he goes. He can feel the urge bubbling up in him now, even with the susurrus of conversation and muffled music from 20 year old speakers. So many stories around him, so much to _know_.

He orders another whiskey, and that takes the edge off. So he goes back to lounging, lazily considering the filtering bodies mingling in silhouette amidst the dim lighting. 

A squeal of feedback startles him from his daze, and he glances over at the paltry stage. There, the eponymous _Saints_ are shuffling around, plugging in amps and strumming ill-tuned guitars, and Gerry allows the briefest twinge of disappointment that none of the members appear to be sporting an overlarge brown jacket. 

It’s not yet midnight, so they’re taking their time, noise ordinances and all that, since the _Rose_ isn’t _technically_ a proper venue. So Gerry just watches. The drummer seems amenable to his tastes. Lanky and small, with a mop of red hair growing out a terrible undercut on one side. The way he worries at his snake bites makes Gerry’s stomach twist, and he keeps watching. Watching.

Till he realizes he’s not alone—realizes he’s fallen prey to someone else’s gaze, too. And what makes Gerry’s blood run suddenly hot is that it’s an absolutely _predatory_ leer. 

A begrudging benefit of his affiliations means he’s learned how to distinguish glowers from glances and sneers from appraisals, and this is _definitely_ the latter, the unmistakable glide of something too heavy to be a passing fancy ravishing him from head to toe. Beneath the general thrum of approval and desire, however, something else lurks, something brutally dark. 

An image of a bloodstained razor flashes suddenly in his mind’s eye, and he fairly gasps, hand instinctively going to the one he keeps in his pocket. At the same time, he whips his head around, hoping to catch his voyeur in the act, but it’s too dark to distinguish anyone from the meager throng that’s now pushing its way to the bar. 

He’s always cut an intimidating figure, so he maintains a decent bubble of personal space around himself, and it’s the first time he regrets it, suddenly wanting nothing more than to disappear into the crowd, because he’s still _seen_. Plucked and flayed from the other patrons by some menacing gaze he can’t meet. 

His immediate first thought is that it’s one of his own. Some big shot Beholder sniffing out competition. But it’s not a _knowing_ sort of thing he’s picking up on. It’s surface level. Carnal and cruel. The same way a wolf regards a lamb, but with a saccharine undercurrent he can’t pin down with the rest of it.

He knows the feeling when it’s a creep eye fucking him. And he knows when some poor chick with a “goth thing” thinks she’s about to score. This is both at once with the goddamn audacity to make him _shiver_ , make the heat in his veins go straight between his legs.

It’s dizzying, exciting, and kind of terrifying in a way that is utterly refreshing. 

And then, as he passes off another cursory look for turning round to order a third drink, he spies his mystery watcher, and Gerry freezes.

He’s more shadow than stature, the man, leaning on the back wall, his face obscured even from the lambent neon outside. Too bad for the both of them, Gerry’s eyesight is pretty fucking perfect, though he’d hardly need it to scout what stands out to him most. Because the man’s wearing a jacket. Brown leather, and tailored to kill, accentuating a thick, imposing stoop at the waist and shoulders.

Something niggles at the back of Gerry’s mind, something that the bassist mentioned about Grifter’s jacket. But he’s already sunk his teeth in. That _must_ be him. Alfred Grifter. And he’s staring right back at Gerry.

“You good, mate?”

“Huh? Wh-” Gerry turns, his arm being jostled by the bartender, Chris, another familiar face. 

“Said you good!” Chris says, well, more like shouts, the surrounding conversation reaching a fever pitch alongside the cacophony of tuning instruments on the stage. 

“Y’look pretty outta it!”

“M’fine!” Gerry shouts back, and then, because why the hell not, he leans in motioning Chris closer. 

“You know that guy?” He jerks his head to the right. Because maybe he’s wrong. Plenty of blokes wear leather jackets. And stare at Gerry like he’s a conquest to be had by any means necessary. And _radiate_ said means with an air of unspeakable violence.

“Who - short, dark, and creepy?” Chris jokes, but promptly amends his attitude at the withering glare Gerry gives.

“He bothering you? Need me t’get Maddy?”

Chris hadn’t been present for the skinhead incident, but gossip travelled, and Gerry hasn’t been able to catch a mother-hen break from either of them since.

“No,” he confirms, and Chris relaxes, marginally. “Just wondering. Say though, you haven’t heard anything about Gri-”

In that moment, the _Saints_ blare suddenly to life with a percussive _crash_ of drums that nearly shakes the whole building. Gerry curses, the vibrations wriggling into his goddamn teeth, and Chris laughs. As the lead singer begins to growl his lamentations with Jesus or whatever the fuck, Chris reaches over the counter and claps Gerry on the shoulder.

“Enjoy the show!” He shouts. “I’ll keep an eye, ‘kay?”

Gerry, not keen on losing his voice, just gives a thumbs up, and Chris leaves to address the queue keen for something else to drown in besides terrible music. With nothing else to distract him, Gerry turns again to see if the man is still there.

He is, and the penetrative _stare_ he was inflicting has abated no less, even as the throng of patrons pulses and sways to the off-kilter beat. Honestly, with two whiskeys under his belt and an odd mix of arousal and adrenaline fueling him like a bad chaser, Gerry’s of half a mind to go over there and approach the guy. Grifter’s Bone maims via music, right? And so what if this guy’s mentally undressing him like the most literal piece of meat, he _has_ to know what this is all about.

Straightening in his seat, he spares a moment to compose himself. And, sure, okay, maybe the way he pretends to work a kink from his neck isn’t _wholly_ necessary, but, hell, if it doesn’t ratchet the _watching_ up a few more clicks. He smirks to himself. Honestly? Bravo to this creep for good taste. Gerry knows he’s better looking than the majority of guys in this place, plus he can hold his own. And the prospect of flirting with the man behind the mythos of Grifter’s Bone? Come _on_.

As he stands, however, the weight of that gaze abruptly lifts, rendering him oddly bewildered. He cranes his neck to look over the sea of people, but the figure is gone, jacket and all. Still buzzing on alcohol and his own traitorous nerves, instead of doing the _smart_ thing and sitting the hell back down, instead Gerry begins shouldering his way through the crowd, silently commending himself for his choice of boots that allow him to stand at least slightly above average. Eventually, he makes his way to the other side of the bar, but it’s still empty, the man vanished into thin air. Which… doesn’t bode well for Gerry wanting to _unwind_ from dealing with exactly that, day in and out at the Institute. 

Christ, maybe this was a bad idea after all. Today absolutely _sucked_ , and he’s not getting anything out of the whiskey, or the _Saints_ . Here he was, just about to pin down Alfred fucking Grifter, and that’s wrenched from his grasp, too. _Goddammit_.

It strikes him, then, he hasn’t actually had a smoke since he’d gone back to his flat. It’s not exactly a habit, but maybe a boost of nicotine will help, steady his thoughts and make him regroup. He really doesn’t want the evening to go to waste, not with what Gertrude has planned for tomorrow. He _needs_ this.

Making a beeline for the door, he ignores Madeline’s jeers and ducks out into the frigid night. The air shocks him like a punch to the gut, and he coughs, stunned by the temperature. It’s nice. Real nice, actually, and he blinks away tears into the biting wind before wandering his way down the pavement. When he gets to where the _Rose_ turns the corner down a side street, he staggers to a halt. Shit, did two whiskeys really get him already? Seems daft, and he definitely drank them too quickly for anyone to sneak something in. Still, he feels dazed, heavy at the back of his head, like there’s a palm pressed there, pushing him forward, sending him lurching. 

He staggers again, and this time, there’s a hand to catch him.

“Careful,” chides a low tone.

“M’fine,” Gerry mumbles, but as he rights himself, he finds that he is not. He is very much _not_ fine.

Or. Maybe he is entirely that, so dizzyingly _perfect_ , he’s immediately worried he might throw up. Because there’s the strange, violent, staring man, holding Gerry’s wrist in one hand while the other drapes two fingers around a cigarette, cradling it as though it were a most delicate orchid. And he’s smirking at Gerry, the left corner of his mouth tugged upwards, revealing a glint of teeth in the midnight light. His eyes, though… they’re wrong. So very, hideously wrong. Like glimpsing the void, or the stare of a dead shark, killed by something far more merciless—far more gleeful in that frenzy for blood.

“One too many, eh?” The man—Grifter?—says, taking a deep drag from his cigarette, all the while still pinioning Gerry’s wrist. His expression dares Gerry to resist, to try and pull away. 

Too shocked by this very _obvious_ turn of events, Gerry does so, tugging his arm, but the stranger holds fast. By this point, he knows this isn’t Grifter. He just does, plain and simple. This is someone— _something_ else. Of the same kin, certainly—the Slaughter sings in his smile—but there’s no music to him. Not any kind Gerry’s heard, anyway. 

And it’s… Christ, shit, _fuck_ —Beholding help him—it’s intoxicating, a car crash he can’t not marvel at. The man’s almost exactly his brand of attractive, but it’s the charm, especially, that does it, ruthless and _mean_ , every blink of his black rimmed eyes like a camera’s shutter, cataloging Gerry to peruse later and discover all the best ways to pick him sinew from bone.

“Who are you,” Gerry finally manages, still caught in the stranger’s grip. 

“d'Ville,” the man answers promptly. 

Well, that proves that. Not Grifter. Instead, a brand new nuisance of the Slaughter, one whom Gerry’s not sure he wants to run from or—

“Care for a fag?”

Gerry resurfaces from his swimming thoughts to find his wrist has been released, and that the stranger— _d'Ville_ —is offering over his smoke. Nothing of his posture denotes any sort of threat, not the way he’s leaning casually against the wall, nor how he’s crossed one foot over the other. But his eyes, his mouth… 

Gerry shudders—resolutely ignoring how _good_ the reaction feels, prompted from this monster—and shakes his head.

“M’good.”

d'Ville huffs a small laugh through his nose, and lifts the cigarette to his cruelly sneering lips, sucking a deep lungful. On his exhale, the smoke curls in a thick, acrid cloud, unfettered by the buffeting wind. Through this haze, Gerry watches him; the monster is right there on the other side, shrouded in his liminal veil, and something inside Gerry very much wants to pull it aside.

And then, another laugh, cold and cloying.

And—

“How ‘bout a fuck, then.”

Again, Gerry stumbles. Again, his traitorous stomach takes a _dive_.

“Ex _cuse_ me?” He splutters, caught somewhere between a laugh of his own and genuine disbelief.

d'Ville just watches him, taking another drag. 

“Mate,” Gerry presses, holding his hands palm-side up in defense, trying to find some way to justify whatever the hell is going on. “I think you’ve got it all wrong.”

“And I think,” d'Ville interjects, suddenly kicking off the wall, and his free hand strikes out, grasping hold of Gerry’s chin, forcing his gaze. 

“I _think_ ,” d'Ville repeats, staring him down, his tone suffused of a cruelty too casual to be anything but deadly serious, “that I’d really like to hear how you scream.”

It can’t be helped, the whimper that issues from Gerry’s slack lips, and d'Ville leers.

“Pain or pleasure, though,” he continues, brushing the pad of his thumb beneath Gerry’s lower lip, “that’s your decision, love. I’m amenable to either.”

Okay, a clear and definite threat, that. Right? It has to be, _must_ be. And it’s nerves running amok through Gerry’s pounding heartbeat, fight or flight that’s seizing up his joints, that’s pooling heat where it _shouldn’t_. 

(Except Gerry knows fear. And this is _not_ fear. Not… entirely, anyway.)

“Think on it, yeah?” d'Ville pulls away, leaving Gerry to wobble _again_ , like some pitiful baby fawn. “And for chrissakes, have one before you keel over.”

With that, d'Ville presses a fresh cigarette into Gerry’s palm and strides away, back into the _Rose_ , leaving Gerry to wonder what, exactly, just happened.

Carefully, he compartmentalizes, making as neat an internal bullet list as his shocked mind can.

\- That’s not Alfred Grifter.

\- He is _definitely_ of the Slaughter.

\- He… wants - wants to… 

\- Fuck _fuck_.

_Yeah, that’s the point_ , supplies his mental dialogue unhelpfully, and Gerry groans, leveraging himself so he’s better leant against the wall. He did _not_ sign up for this tonight. All he bloody wanted was a break, drinks, bad tunes, and a meaningless shag. Hopping into bed with the human equivalent of a seax was not a dilemma he was prepared to face. 

Because, the kicker is, he’s actually considering it. Because, if that man wanted him dead, he’d _be_ dead. The Slaughter isn’t subtle, and were Gerry predestined to exsanguinate on the curb of a dive bar, then d'Ville would have left his blood mingling in pools of streetlight five minutes ago. He _certainly_ wouldn’t have bloody _flirted_ , calling him _love_ and offering a cig like some cheap stab at the Stranger. If any of their interaction counts toward even the vaguest definition thereof. Gerry’s perspective on normalcy has long been skewed since working with Gertrude, so he’ll find his positives wherever he can.

And… Christ, well, the man is a catch. Now that Gerry has a moment to compose himself, his memory paints a better picture of the lurking figure. On the shorter side, but nicely built, not to mention _great_ style, just the kind of edgy tat Gerry gravitates towards, and that eyeliner, that _voice_? Forget it. Fucking him would undoubtedly make for some of the best dick of Gerry’s life. Better than a blowjob in the loo or disappointing some prick suddenly claiming they’ve got a silicon allergy. 

The word _mean_ keeps echoing around Gerry’s head, a siren song of intrigue that goes _right_ between his legs. Hell, the man probably prefers a bloke like Gerry, not for lack of basic decency—Gerry’s been treated one too many times like a _novelty_ , thank you very much—only d'Ville seems the type keen for something rough and fast and bruising. He probably gives great head, probably sounds gorgeous when he moans, too… 

Gerry shivers and stifles a groan. Kneading the heels of his hands into his eyes, he tries to corral his far too eager thoughts. At which point, he recalls what’s nestled in his fist, crumbling the tangy scent of tobacco into his eyes as the wind picks up. Well, dammit. He’s crushed the cigarette well beyond use, which, whatever, he has a pack of his own tucked away, although that’s not quite the point. Something squirms pleasantly in his pulse at the idea of imbibing d'Ville’s offering. Then his insides, entire, seem to tremble as Gerry recollects the dashing, prowling smile on the man’s lips when he’d proffered the little parting gift.

Sod it. What does he have to lose? Some blood, maybe? A few cuts and nicks, but he can handle it. He’ll knock this suitor of the Slaughter down a few pegs, and have a right fun time with it, too. The night’s a waste, otherwise. The whiskey’s already wearing off, and the clatter from the _Saints_ still blaring away inside the _Rose_ is doing nothing but coaxing out an even deeper headache. He should probably have an actual smoke before going back in there, settle the jitters crawling through his fingers and knees, but his pack of Marlboro’s appeals less and less to the idea of d'Ville’s impeccable roll-up. And what better pretense to approach him with?

Perhaps, he’s thinking a tad too far on the sunnier side of things. Perhaps it’s been far too long since he got laid. Perhaps, perhaps, but there’s only one way to find out, and he’s feeling bold, the fresh air and this utterly _inane_ encounter keeping his adrenaline pumping at a rhythmic rate. 

Madeline’s abandoned the door when he makes his way back in, which is probably for the best. If she’d seen that altercation before, there’s no doubt in Gerry’s mind she’d have bashed a few of those perfect teeth loose from d'Ville’s grin. The _Saints_ are still thrashing around the stage, and Gerry almost laughs aloud at the sight of the drummer, a savage moue marring what was originally not a bad looking face. Now, he wears a pissy naivete Gerry finds increasingly unappealing the longer he watches. So he focuses his attention on locating d'Ville. 

It doesn’t take long, the man’s resumed his haunt at the back of the bar, nursing a beer and a shit-eating smirk. As Gerry approaches, striding over like he has the upperhand, his instincts start to falter, screaming at him to turn around and run, that he’s walking straight into the lion’s maw. Which, given how long it’s _been_ , doesn’t sound all that bad, a private joke Gerry uses the momentum of to carry himself those final feet between him and d'Ville. 

“So how’s it work, then,” he says, propping an elbow aside d'Ville’s head with a confidence that marvels even himself. The nonchalantly raised eyebrow he receives only adds fuel, and once more, Gerry commends himself for his choice of boots.

“How’s what work,” d'Ville replies, taking a swig of beer. Gerry employs a valiant effort to _not_ stare at the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. He almost succeeds.

“You know what I mean.”

“Mm,” d'Ville seems genuinely to ponder this, “I don’t think I _do_ , actually. Come to think of it, I don’t even know who you are, love. Bold of you, really, propositioning a stranger. Been so long without a cock in you, you’ve forgotten the etiquette?”

“I - you -” heat spills across Gerry’s cheeks, the bridge of his nose. 

“A _name_ , if you’re so inclined,” d'Ville says, a snap of boredom settling into his tone, even as he deals another blow to Gerry’s bravado, raking his eyes up and down.

Gerry blinks at him, the cogs whirring but none of their teeth catching. Never has he encountered one of the Slaughter who was quite so vexing. Maybe even suave. The urge to both kick his teeth in and ride his face is fascinating. Just to shut him up, of course.

“Gerard,” he says, begrudgingly, too far in, now, to deny whatever the hell this is. 

“Gerard,” repeats d'Ville, taking his time with each letter, as though savoring them. “Hm, suits you.”

Gerry bristles, “Th’fuck does that mean?”

“Whatever you’d like it to,” answers d'Ville, nonplussed, as he swallows the last of his beer. 

“Now,” he continues, dangling the empty bottle from two fingers, barely impeding its certain fate with gravity, “if we’re done with all this bullshit, d’you care to get on?”

Gerry opens his mouth to offer up his own clever rebuke, but d'Ville is faster, and in three deft motions, he’s smashed his bottle on the wall behind him—the sound obscured by a well timed howl from the _Saints_ —twisted his fist into Gerry’s hair, and hauled him down close, near enough to caress the jagged bottle beneath his jaw. 

“I’d like to take my time with you,” d'Ville soothes, somehow audible above the din and music, though his mouth is _technically_ nowhere near enough to incite the cascade of shivers that runs riotous down Gerry’s spine. “I feel you’re no stranger to a bathroom stall, though, and I’m not terribly picky. So, what do you say, _Gerard_. Here or yours?”

“M-mine,” Gerry stammers out, before he can catch up to his traitorous tongue.

But… is it really? Is he not stupidly, _helplessly_ turned on by this? The cool, carving touch of glass against his skin, the solid, sharp pain of his hair at another man’s mercy. Those dead, _killing_ eyes regarding him so sweetly.

That _smile_ , as d'Ville lowers the broken bottle and tosses it to the floor to be somebody’s else’s problem. Abruptly, he pulls Gerry closer, till their mouths are almost met, such that Gerry can taste the tobacco on his tongue as he speaks.

“Good man,” d'Ville praises.

And, Christ above, Gerry’s half inclined to believe him.

-

The cab ride to his flat is, to put it mildly, utterly surreal, and Gerry only remembers enough of it to bear the consequences of hailing and paying. His is a ground floor rental, so there’s no awkward elevator ride, just… letting a violent, gorgeous stranger into his place with the sole intent of some likely regrettable sex come morning. For now? Gerry’s firing on half cylinders, intoxicated by d'Ville and how easily he circumvents typical decorum. By all accounts, he’s a predator wrapped up in a gentlemen’s collar—insofar as the Slaughter has claimed him—and Gerry is _very_ eager to see what benefits his patron has afforded him in the bedroom.

“Nice place,” d'Ville comments, as Gerry deadbolts the door with shaking hands. 

This catches him off guard more than anything. There he was, bracing himself for d'Ville to box him in against the door, maybe carve a few hickies into his neck, but as he turns round, the bastard’s just… sauntering through to the living room, his jacket draped on one arm as his hands dangle from his pockets.

“Thanks?” Gerry ventures, still frozen by the door.

Perhaps his better instincts are still intact, poising to flee when the situation turns inevitably blood-soaked. Because he has _willingly_ invited pure, literal violence into his flat, all for the promise of a shag. Because he has to believe part of him hasn’t caught up to these ramifications. Because it can’t be that he’s as alert as ever and still desperate anyway for this stranger’s face between his legs.

“Come here.”

It’s almost a suggestion, with the way d'Ville beckons him over, but Gerry obeys, doing his best to maintain an aloof stride, but he’s wandering over on tugged strings more than anything, enamored of this enigma. 

“Here?” d'Ville inquires, once Gerry’s made it as far as the living room. 

“Or there,” with this, he jerks his head in the obvious direction of the bedroom, a full sneer stretching over those immaculate, sharp teeth.

“There,” Gerry says, once again lagging behind his eager tongue. 

d'Ville, for his part, just laughs, and the shadows beneath his eyes grow darker, hungrier.

“Go on, then,” he cajoles, tossing his jacket on the sofa and cocking his head, his gaze once more undressing Gerry from head to foot.

It’s when Gerry's finally there, stood at the foot of his bed with the prospect of _this_ looming behind him, that a tendril of doubt uncurls in the heat of his stomach. Before he can act upon it, though, that presence becomes fully manifest, d'Ville closing in and curling his hands around Gerry’s hips with a weight of possession just shy of murder.

A moment’s reprieve lapses, a transitory space graciously provided by Gerry’s guest. An olive branch. An: _Of course you can back out, but I know you don’t want to._

Gerry almost laughs. Who knew the Slaughter could be _considerate_?

It’s a sentiment he quickly swallows when, after thirty seconds of just standing there—two bodies hot and thrumming against each other—d'Ville presses his mouth to the nape of Gerry’s neck and exhales a teasing breath through his hair.

“How do you want me to break you,” he murmurs, more growl than syllable.

And the answer is easy. Is wrong. Is _wanting_ . Is _fuck-me-till-I-don’t-have-to-think-about-anything._

Which is to say: “I don’t fucking care.”

And those hands move with such frightening speed, the right charting a course for his belt, the left snaking up his chest, settling in a loose constriction around his throat. 

“You sure, love?” d'Ville prompts, as Gerry’s eyes flutter closed from the delicious contact of such soft, brutal hands.

“ _Yes_.”

The next thing Gerry knows, he’s sprawling face first onto the bed, shoved forward in an unceremonious heap. He’s afforded no chance to find his bearings, d'Ville swiftly bearing _down_ on him, hips grinding against his arse while fingers lace through Gerry’s and pin his hands to the mattress.

“M’going to enjoy you,” d'Ville promises in his ear as Gerry turns his head to the side.

“Had fucking better,” Gerry retorts, unused to such manhandling, but, just as well, he more or less resigned himself to _this_ the moment d'Ville’s malice became apparent. There was no feasible way Gerry was getting a bloke like this speared on his strap, and sometimes—if the bravado is really up to snuff—he’s amenable to receiving.

In this case, he’s _more_ than fine, and despite how d'Ville has him somewhat hobbled, he gets a knee up under himself and arches his hips, meeting the hard length of d'Ville’s cock through their layers of clothing.

“ _Hah_ , keen are we?”

“Th’fuck do you think,” Gerry says, and then _groans_ , as d'Ville works a knee between his thighs.

“I think I’ve found myself a bit of a brat,” d'Ville murmurs, still speaking into the hot skin just beneath Gerry’s ear.

“And I _think_ I’d like to shut him up.”

“Shit or get off it,” Gerry retorts, mouth watering at the prospect of what he’s almost certain d'Ville is implying.

The man laughs again, and Gerry’s almost inclined to believe himself in possession of the cards, until d'Ville’s tone turns cloyingly dark, a cashmere shroud of his infinite cruelty.

“Maybe,” he purrs, and _finally_ presses his lips to Gerry’s neck, flicks his tongue out to tease, to _warn_. “Or maybe I want the first taste.”

Hot, sizzling pleasure races to the pit of Gerry’s stomach, and a pathetic little whine issues from his throat, quite without his say so.

“I’ll take that as a yes?”

He’s asking, the bastard’s actually _asking_ , and Gerry’s not sure if it’s some degrading form of torture, making him admit that, yes, he’d very much like d'Ville’s wicked tongue in his cunt, or that avatars of the Slaughter actually give a fuck about consent.

Either way, he’s a dead man, so why not? Why the hell not. If this asshole’s so intent on relegating him to a wreck of shudders and pleas, well, Gerry’s not opposed at the best of times. And this is _certainly_ one of those.

“Come now, love,” d'Ville sneers, “I’m only sometimes a monster, but I’ll need to hear you say it.”

“Yes,” Gerry exhales. “Fuck, _Christ_ , yes, Jesus just -”

He nearly _howls_ with how hard d'Ville bites him, lavishing a sucking, scraping bruise to the tender flesh of his throat.

“Good man,” he says, and, _fuck_ , Gerry could get used to hearing that.

He’s given no further say in the matter, however, as d'Ville abruptly pulls away, releasing his hands and, presumably, sitting back on his heels. His palms next chart a course for the backs of Gerry’s thighs, kneading and massaging, thumbs digging inward, slowly coaxing Gerry’s legs apart.

“On your knees,” d'Ville orders, and Gerry shakily complies, hoisting himself, elbows first, then knees, and he goes to reach for his belt, but a sudden, brutal pressure between his shoulder blades sends him plummeting into the pillows again, his arms buckling from the force.

“I said _knees_ ,” d'Ville growls, and Gerry wishes he had it in him to retort with something clever, but his better judgement has gone fuzzy, and he can only mumble a half-hearted apology, mostly in the hopes it’ll get d'Ville’s mouth on him faster.

“ _Tch,_ ” d'Ville scoffs, his hands resuming their exploration of Gerry’s thighs, one even nudging the inseam of his trousers. “You’ll learn.”

Gerry can only give an assenting groan, burning up already and desperate to get at least _some_ of his clothing off.

Whether d'Ville possesses something of Beholding alongside his violence, that’s for Gerry to ponder later, but the prick does a right good job of reading his mind, anyway, snaking his hands around Gerry’s hips and deftly undoing his belt before sliding his trousers down to mid-thigh, leaving him in his pants where he’s not ashamed to realize a telling wet spot must be growing.

“Oh, what have we here?” d'Ville crows, a hint of disdainful triumph in his voice, and Gerry stiffens, immediately horrified he misread the entire situation, that he not only picked up an ax-murderer, but a transphobe at that—a concern he’ll later recall as hilariously absurd—but, in fact, that’s not it at all. Instead, d'Ville goes rummaging through Gerry’s front pocket and fishes out his switchblade.

That this is a _relief_ for Gerry bears no comment. d'Ville, however, has plenty.

“A man of means,” he praises, and a fresh frisson skitters over Gerry’s exposed skin at the sound of the knife being flicked open. 

Still, he doesn’t move, frozen with want and curiosity. 

“I’m sure you keep this little beauty well taken care of?”

It’s more interrogative than just a simple question, and Gerry finds himself nodding.

“F’course,” he mutters, because _of course_ the Slaughter would have to momentarily cock-block him just to admire a damn switchblade.

Until -

“ _Sh-shit!_ ” His whole body jerks, the sharply cold flat end of the blade suddenly raking up the inside of his left thigh, flicking away again at the hem of his briefs.

“Hm, I think we’ll have some _fun_ with that,” d'Ville murmurs, “but first -”

And Gerry’s afforded no time to acclimate, to even register the feeling of d'Ville’s fingers grasping the band of his briefs and yanking them down. The motion is swiftly punctuated by a clever swipe of the tongue to his cock, and he yelps, groans, and buries his face into the pillow.

“Mm,” d'Ville hums against his sensitive flesh, sucking Gerry’s cock fully between his lips and teasing the tip with a devilishly precise tongue.

“Gorgeous cunt, love,” he murmurs, and nuzzles his mouth up, nibbling and tasting every inch of Gerry. 

For his part, Gerry has contented himself to caging what few traitorous moans he can, utterly mortified by how _good_ it feels already, not to mention how goddamn smug d'Ville’s being about it.

He’d like to rebuke as much about his own oral prowess, if the bastard would be so inclined as to put himself in such a vulnerable position. The second he finds the mental capacity to string together such a sentence, however, d'Ville abruptly thrusts his tongue into Gerry’s entrance as his thumb works grinding circles into Gerry’s cock. All that issues of Gerry’s bitten-red lips is a vague, “ _N-ghh_ ,” which really does him no favors.

Well, actually, what it earns is the sensation of d'Ville bloody _grinning_ , followed by a barrage of sucking kisses and licks to as much of his cunt as d'Ville can get his mouth on, so it’s back to a zero sum score of Gerry’s mental capacities. On the playing field of inflicting pleasure, though, d'Ville holds a solid lead.

“Mm,” he hums again, sending a wave of low, buzzing vibrations through to the core of Gerry’s pleasure. “Could do this for ages.”

Gerry’s half inclined to agree, to garble out some whiny plea, because the sticky, sweet heat in his gut roils, dangerously, spilling inexorably closer to the cliff’s edge of what portends to be one of the best damn orgasms of his life.

“Going to come for me already, love?” d'Ville lips still lave over Gerry, each syllable a caress of silken tongue as he affords no interim.

“Go on, then,” he purrs, “show me your pleasure.”

Gerry doesn’t break on cue; despite the evening’s cliches, he’s granted that dignity, at least. Which is almost immediately usurped by the mortifying inundation of climax wrenched too suddenly from his person as d'Ville—his tongue still buried deep—digs his blunt nails into the backs of Gerry’s thighs and _rakes_ them upwards, carving deep lines of splitting, stunning agony that lance through the unrelenting crests of Gerry’s orgasm.

“ _Fuckfuckfuuuuck_ ,” his throat burns, like he’s screaming, or it could be the lack of air. From screaming. Or perhaps because he’s got his face buried in the pillow again, a suffocating attempt to silence the pleasure-into-pain as d'Ville savors him long after sparks of overstimulation have scored deep into the afterglow. 

“Christ,” d'Ville sighs, finally pulling back, only to drag the knuckle of his index finger against Gerry’s aching cunt. “You’re fucking soaked.”

“N-no thanks to you,” Gerry manages, too fucked out to be embarrassed, and too spiteful to relinquish whatever perceived higher ground he might claim for his own. He still has yet to blow the son-of-a-bitch, and he’s determined to really put his—er—throat into it.

As it were.

As it _is_ , d'Ville makes no move to make use of him, just keeps to his asynchronous caresses. Gerry hasn’t even the wherewithal to gasp when the cold press of his knife’s blunt edge returns to his skin, dragging languid circles on his thighs.

“I could tear you open,” d'Ville murmurs, almost dreamily. “And I could fuck you while you bleed out, and do it all over again because you’d _beg_ for it, wouldn’t you?”

“Piss off,” Gerry grumbles, squirming as the blade arcs up, dangerously close to his cunt. 

He’s no different than the other scum Gerry’s let fuck him at the worst of times. Well, okay, maybe not _quite_ as bad—at least he had the decency to make Gerry come before fucking him. That he’s just… opining, now, like a meaningless fuck is some grand philosophy to consider before actually ever getting to the act… Gerry’s not sure what to make of it. Though, his body has come down from its endorphin addled high, and d'Ville’s fingers are once more frustratingly lovely, as is each pass of the knife over his skin, hypnotic, promising wave after wave of cloying pleasure.

It’s dizzyingly… intimate. Gerry has no idea what to do with it.

Thankfully, d'Ville seems more than happy to claim the reins for himself, turning the blade sinister, striking too high, too hard, and nipping a thin line of _pain_ just beneath the crease of Gerry’s right thigh.

“What the fuck, mate?” Gerry shouts.

Or, would shout, if he weren’t being pushed onto his back to have his mouth filled with d'Ville’s tongue and snarls and murderous _glee_.

“Tell me you want this, love” he hisses, shoving his knee between Gerry’s legs and forcing him to grind against the rough denim of his trousers. “Tell me, and I’ll carve you up right now—rip out every _second_ of pleasure. I’ll make you _divine_ with pain.”

When d'Ville pulls back, his mouth is stained red with blood that is neither his own nor Gerry’s. Simply, it is his truth, the ecstasy of his god as he shares it in the throes of an appalling passion.

For a long, languorous moment, Gerry takes him in, this spectacle of the Slaughter restraining itself just to the knife’s edge. He almost wonders where _that’s_ gone to, but, ah yes, there it is, d'Ville painting it across his neck as tensions surmount. 

Gerry gives it another second, two, three.

“Hm,” he hums, pulse hammering, but his blood runs sluggish with the rush of his orgasm, his head not wholly _on_. 

“Let me blow you first,” he says, noncommittally, “then we’ll see.”

d'Ville laughs, a cruel bark of amusement with a “You’ve got balls, kid” kind of condescension lingering there.

But he concedes, says, “All’s fair,” before straightening, fully, and Gerry expects him to throw a leg astride his chest, and fuck his mouth from that—admittedly less than ideal—angle. Instead, the hand not holding the knife darts out, wickedly quick, and Gerry’s being hauled upright, pulled into another bloodying kiss.

“Go on,” d'Ville murmurs, sucking a fresh gout of blood from Gerry’s lower lip. “Show me what you’re worth, love.”

“Fuck’n sit _back_ , then,” Gerry retorts, and dares to give d'Ville a shove toward the pillows and headboard.

d'Ville goes down easy, laughing all the while, even as his eyes flash with all manner of warning that should have Gerry donning his trousers and fleeing. But… this is his flat. And he’s very much _not_ keen to put his pants on given his… _state_ . And he’s also aching to one up this asshole _somehow_. 

No, the only decent thing he can do now is swallow his pride—among other things—and accept that he wants this. Wants to wipe that smile off d'Ville’s face. Wants d'Ville to hold his head down and use his mouth. Wants d'Ville’s cock buried so deep, he’ll be dripping cum for days. 

“Cute,” d'Ville smirks, as he settles himself against the headboard, arms spread wide on the pillows in a _come hither_ pantomime.

He makes no move to undo his trousers, and it dawns on Gerry _he’s_ going to have to do that, too. _Bastard_ . Still, he asked for this, and the outline of d'Ville’s cock straining against the fabric has his jaw hot at the hinge with a bone deep _need_.

“Fine,” he spits, and shuffles forward on his knees. Which gives him an idea. Or, an impulse.

So he doesn’t stop where he should, the correct distance to give him proper access. Instead, he keeps moving up, till he’s straddling d'Ville, one knee between his thighs, the other bracketing the outside of his leg. 

“Can I help you, love?” d'Ville smiles, all innocence and malice in a flash of teeth.

“Maybe,” Gerry sniffs, and lowers down on d'Ville’s thigh, grinding his soaked cunt along the bulge of d'Ville’s cock still trapped in his trousers. 

“Mm, I see,” d'Ville breathes, allowing the slightest shudder in his tone that encourages Gerry to roll his hips _harder_ , earning a proper hiss.

“If you’re so preoccupied,” d'Ville grits out, and from seemingly nowhere procures another roll-up.

“You mind?”

“Not at all.”

Gerry waits till he’s lit up and sucked in a lungful to _really_ put his hips to work, but he’s stymied a moment as d'Ville grabs his collar and pulls him close. 

“Open up, love,” he says, casually as one might consider the weather, and Gerry is helpless only to concede, letting his jaw hang slack as d'Ville takes a deep drag. His eyes flutter and sting from the acrid smoke d'Ville exhales between his lips, but the effect is exquisite, the smoke curling between them phantasmal and sharp. 

“How ‘bout you get to work then,” d'Ville comments after blowing another thin stream of smoke down Gerry’s throat. “Think I’m owed a bit, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d say you’re an insufferable _prick_ ,” Gerry retorts, sounding as bored as he can pretend to be, save his stomach rather ties itself in somersaults as he leverages back on his heels.

“And?” d'Ville eyes him, challenging and amused all wrapped up in a snarling grin.

Gerry scoffs, roughly undoing d'Ville’s belt and fly without breaking eye contact.

“And nothing, mate,” he says, tugging d'Ville’s cock free. 

It’s a struggle to school his expression from offering any commentary on the weight in his hand; it’s going to be a _delicious_ mouthful, goddammit.

“Well,” d'Ville says, his visage affecting similarly nothing, even as Gerry strokes lazily down the length, “you’re the one s’bout to have my insufferable prick in your throat. Doesn’t lend much credence, love.”

Gerry glares, staring daggers right down to the blade d'Ville still holds alongside his cigarette.

“I think I really hate you,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“Don’t need to love someone to suck his cock, Gerard,” d'Ville replies, just as rote.

Gerry shrugs, surreptitiously shuffling backwards just a bit.

“Fair enough,” he says, and promptly lowers his head, taking d'Ville’s cock all the way to the back of his throat in one, fluid motion.

“N _h-ah_. Hah,” d'Ville’s free hand tangles back into Gerry’s hair, gripping _tight_. “Mn… knew I made a good choice with you. Always the pretty boys, innit? Damn whores, the lot’a you.”

Gerry can only give a gargled hum, and, besides, he’s too focused on perfecting his technique to pay d'Ville’s meaningless digs any mind. 

And the bastard’s got a nice fucking cock, besides, just thick enough to stretch his jaw out, the head rigidly swollen as Gerry bobs back and swirls his tongue. He lingers there a second, lips a neat little “o” of suction around it as he runs his tongue rhythmically along the underside before flicking back up to tease the slit. 

“You were made for this,” d'Ville sighs, and when Gerry glances up, the asshole has the audacity to look _fond_. 

He’s still smoking—as well, the knife has been swapped out to his other hand—but he’s… softened, somehow, both body and demeanor lax with pleasure that Gerry is very much in control of.

“Beautiful,” he breathes again, and brings the hand that wields the knife to Gerry’s face, his cheek, stroking it with the backs of his knuckles, tracing the bulge of his cock in Gerry’s cheek.

Gerry leans into the touch; sod respectability, this is one of the best fucks he’s had in ages. 

“Can’t wait to split you open,” d'Ville continues praising, though Gerry only has a second to let it settle warmly in his gut before the sting of cold metal returns, this time, braced softly at the corner of his mouth.

“Just like that,” d'Ville purrs, tracing the blade around Gerry’s stretched lips. “A couple of holes to be filled, eh?

“Speaking of,” he continues, tone still steady despite the attention Gerry’s lavishing his cock with. 

“Arse or cunt, love.”

Gerry almost laughs, and he pulls back, ensuring a slick _pop_ as he does so.

“Really?” He says, sounding perhaps more hoarse than he’d like, but… c’est la vie.

“I’m being _considerate_ ,” d'Ville huffs, taking himself in hand almost as a second thought.

Gerry does laugh this time, a derisive rasp of air.

“Don’t,” he says, to which d'Ville responds by inhaling deeply from his cigarette.

The sight of it makes Gerry crave one, too. Instead, he crawls back into d'Ville’s lap, swatting his hand aside, and presses his cock flat against his stomach.

“S’at it?” d'Ville breathes, smile wreathed in smoke as Gerry slides his cunt along d'Ville’s length.

“Give us a drag,” Gerry murmurs, thighs burning with the effort it takes not to bear down fully on d'Ville’s cock. He’s going to _hurt_ tomorrow.

d'Ville smirks, passing over the fag.

“You never did answer,” he says, as Gerry grounds himself with the sting of tobacco ravaging his raw throat. 

“'Bout what.”

By way of answering, d'Ville ventures the hand that hadn’t been holding the cigarette down between them, nudging the knuckle of his thumb at Gerry’s cock. 

“About my being _considerate_ ,” he adds, as if there’s any clarification needed.

“I _know_ what you are,” Gerry says, losing himself to the sparks of pleasure d'Ville’s thumb coaxes out of him. “Nothing— _ah_ —considerate about you.”

“I don’t fuck and kill,” d'Ville retorts, flashing the knife again as he digs his thumb in. “I like to keep my pleasures mostly separate, thank you very much.”

“Good for you,” Gerry breathes. “If you’ll do me the kindness of at least _proving_ it, then -”

d'Ville grabs him by the collar before Gerry can even register the movement of his hands, the knife kissing his throat at an angle just shy of bloodletting.

“Cunt it is then,” d'Ville hisses in his ear.

That’s all Gerry needs. Just the right moment to fall back, fumble a hand between them, and sink down on d'Ville’s cock, punching a throaty, rolling groan from his already addled lungs.

“ _Good boy_ ,” d'Ville growls, keeping Gerry pinned close, such that most of the praise gets lost halfway between teeth and skin where d'Ville’s latched onto his neck again.

For his part, Gerry can only let loose a pathetic keen, hands scrabbling for purchase against the headboard as he writhes in d'Ville’s lap—so _fucking_ full he can barely move. It feels fantastic. The sting of the stretch and the belly deep bloom of hot, sweet pleasure. He finds a middling rhythm that doesn’t threaten to tear him in half, and is content to lose himself like that, chasing the steady building of tension. Till he feels pressure of a different sort around his throat, and he stares at d'Ville through a daze as the bastard slowly closes his hand tighter against Gerry's windpipe.

Everything vaults, again. The room spinning sideways, and it takes a second for Gerry to realize d'Ville’s thrown him onto his back and pinned both wrists in one of his hands. The other—the one that had the knife which is now, evidently, discarded—plucks the cigarette that’s fallen from his fingers onto the pillow. Crushing it in his fist, he tosses the ashes over the side of the bed, simpering at Gerry all the while.

“You’re just a show pony in eyeliner, aren’t you,” Gerry scoffs, only to promptly inhale the retort as d'Ville fucks into him _hard_.

“If that’s what you’re into, love, I’ll be anything you like.”

“ _Nh_ , f-fuck off— _ah_!”

Gerry tries and fails to bite his tongue around the barrage of moans that push between his teeth, somehow unencumbered by d'Ville’s hand still at his throat. He sets a brutal, _fantastic_ pace, till the sounds of fabric striking flesh and the wet rhythm of Gerry’s cunt being filled so _thoroughly_ are all that can be heard. The hitched groans and keens d'Ville allows him to exhale, notwithstanding.

“I’m going to come in you,” d'Ville pants, some interminable time later, his hips still working furiously as ever. “And then you’re going to ride my face. That sound good?”

“ _Fu-uuck_ , _ngghah_ ,” is all Gerry manages, but it gets the point across.

d'Ville pounds into him, the thick, rigid head of his cock striking that _agonizingly_ perfect spot in Gerry every goddamn time. And he’s so close, _so fucking close_.

And then d'Ville whimpers—just once, quiet enough it might have been missed, altogether—and slams his cock home one final time before stilling completely, shuddering and trembling over Gerry as he comes. 

In that exalting moment of pure vulnerability, Gerry wants nothing more than to drag the man down and kiss him breathless, but once again, he's just too damn fast, reversing their positions in a flurry of hauling hands and momentum that leaves Gerry straddling his chest and d'Ville urging him forward by a death grip on his hips.

“ _Come here_ ,” he commands, and Gerry helplessly obeys, until his cunt is level with d'Ville’s mouth.

He watches, equal parts mortified and devastatingly turned on as a string of d'Ville’s own come streams down onto the man’s waiting tongue, and something in him breaks. Be it decency, resolve, or just sheer goddamn _need_ , he’s grinding down on d'Ville’s mouth before the man has a chance to even spit. Given how he surges up to meet Gerry, it’s safe to assume he’s fine swallowing, and Gerry can only lurch forward, hands braced on the headboard, hips rolling shallowly as d'Ville takes him apart with his tongue all over again.

At some point, d'Ville bites him, a harsh nip to his cock that makes Gerry cry in ecstasy. And he repeats the action, alternating the lush attention of his tongue with the cruel precision of his teeth until finally, _finally_ , Gerry comes, convulsing bodily, grinding downon d'Ville’s mouth. 

“Jesus f- _fucking_ Christ,” Gerry stammers, his body wracked with tremors even as overstimulation claims him and he has to pull away roughly, dismounting d'Ville’s mouth and collapsing onto the bed beside him.

“Pretty good, eh?” d'Ville pants, himself, and Gerry glances over to see the man not _quite_ as debauched as he should be, but there’s a mix of slick and come that coats his jaw obscenely, so that’s a win, at least. 

Gerry just laughs, the sound shaky but honest.

“You’re a fuck’n demon, mate,” he exhales. 

“You’d know best,” d'Ville retorts, and good lord, is the prick trying to be _fond_? 

Gerry’s rather forgotten he did just fuck an avatar of the Slaughter, and now, with the deed done and all, who’s to say d'Ville won’t just slit his throat right out? He said he doesn’t fuck and kill, but didn’t exactly specify about the post-coital glow. And Gerry hardly expects a kiss and cuddle.

“Can hear those bloody cogs whirring, love,” d'Ville comments idly, accompanied by the sound of his zip and belt. 

“Don’t strain yourself,” he continues, turning on his side, propped up by his elbow. “You’re worth your weight more in cum than blood.”

“You are fucking disgusting,” Gerry says, only slightly recoiling as d'Ville grins and wipes the latter mess from around his mouth with his sleeve. 

“And?” He raises a challenging brow. “Still one of the best fucks you’ve ever had.”

Gerry has no response to that. Because he’s right, of course. 

“I know it was for me,” the _insufferable prick_ bloody winks, and Gerry must physically restrain himself from punching him. Or kissing him. Or both. In whatever succession.

He’s not afforded either chance, however, d'Ville abruptly rolling back over, sitting up, and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“Anyway, ta for it,” he says, standing with his back to Gerry. “But that’s me.”

“Maybe I’ll see you around?” Gerry asks, trying not to sound as traitorously hopeful as he feels.

d'Ville spares him a backward glance for that, and a grin.

“Sure,” he says, “and maybe I’ll slit your throat next time, too, yeah?”

“Holding you to that,” Gerry smirks, and keeps smirking even as d'Ville throws the bird over his shoulder, sauntering out of the room. 

There’s some rustling from the living room, presumably d'Ville retrieving the jacket that started it all. Then the door being unlocked, opened, and—rather politely—closed. And Gerry is alone. Unutterably sore and satisfied and alone and— _Christ_. He subsides fully into his pillows, wincing as his body catches up the veritable assault it just endured. He’s no idea where his switchblade got to, and with the wreck of blankets around him, it could be anywhere. Shit.

He’s thoroughly loathing the prospect of having to move and strip the bed to find the knife, until he happens to spy something in his periphery. Turning his head, a full and hapless smile breaks out across his mouth all over again, both his blade and a roll-up sat innocuously on the bedside table.

“Prick,” he mutters under his breath, retrieving the latter. His lighter survived the carnage of his trousers, and the first gulp of heavy smoke does wonders for his trembling. Involuntary and otherwise.

For a long time, he lays there, smoking and contemplating the knife.

And he won’t remember in the morning, but when he finally falls asleep—a long time after he’s finished the cigarette—it is to the rhythm of blood, pounding, pulsing, and not entirely all his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, if anyone has invite abilities to the nsfw mechs discord... I would be immensely indebted to you...
> 
> (Edit)  
> Debated adding this end note, but in light of some truly disgusting shit, I have to put my foot down. I've seen far too much vile "work" in the feed, so if you write/consume/support works that fetishize rape/dubcon/etc, kindly get the fuck away from my work. I won't resort to account name-dropping just yet, but you freaks know who you are, and you are not welcome in any capacity. Get help, and get the hell away from me.


End file.
